


Ripper

by anniesburg



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Angst and Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, One Shot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Series, human!Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: What might've happened before Gabriel Bolivar ever got near that plane.





	Ripper

**Author's Note:**

> there isn't a whole lot of love for gabe so i thought i'd change that.

“Put on the arm guards, Gabriel. I don’t want to see the scars.” you file your nails on the bed, watching him preen in the mirror. He’s pretty, what’s worse is that he knows it. There’s a straightness to his back, a posture that implies dominance he likes to think he has. Oh yeah, Dwight, you think. Very cool. 

With your legs stretched out, you look flippant in the most delicious way. 

“Christ, okay.” he says like this is a new preference of yours. He tugs them on with black-painted fingers, holding his arm up to you like a petulant child. He is a petulant child, pickled in money and alcohol.

“Better. I fucking hate that you do that,” he makes a face at you in the mirror and you show him your teeth. “it’s disgusting.”

“Well, the fans eat it up.” he’s quick to reply. Your laugh is mean, it has to be.

“No they don’t. Blood isn’t sexy.” you look up from your filing. “I sure the fuck could go without it.” he turns in his chair, his abs flexed and muscles like wiry ropes. You repress a frown, he still looks on the skinny side. Cocaine, too, you remind yourself. He’s saturated in that. Your gut instinct is to tell him to eat, but even that borders on sentiment. 

“Ruby’s been thinking of axing the bit.” he says, giving you the inch you need to simmer down. Your look of malice turns to one of teasing fondness. You change like the weather when he’s on his best behaviour. 

“Finally. Just bite the head off a bat or something. Bang on your keyboard with a dead snake.” his smile is annoyed, but not very. You can be cruel and witty in equal measure.

“I’m not some would-be Alice Cooper motherfucker.” he says, looking back to the mirror and dragging his finger under his eye. The greasepaint smudges how he wants it to.

“Just a thought.” you say.

“And I’d have animal rights groups crawling up my ass the second I did.” you shrug at that.

“I’m not your mommy, or your manager. I don’t have all the answers.” the way he growls makes you giggle. 

“But you still act like you’re the boss.” he snaps, but it’s a non-threatening snap.

“You dumb fucker, I am the boss.” you fire back. Your smile is nowhere near as malicious as it could be. Tugging on the oversized t-shirt falling down your shoulder, you set the nail file on the nightstand. You lift a leg, crossing one over the other and reclining on the bed. 

Gabriel gives you a playful look in his mirror, one that makes your stomach twist with anticipation. You’re going to regret saying that, you realize. Wow, you think. Even your inner monologue is dripping with sarcasm. I’m shaking. 

“I just don’t want you to end up regretting it.” you say, your tone a careless mess. It speaks of wanting to be anywhere else, caring for anyone else. He knows it’s a lie, you know it too. 

The things he says to you when he’s drunk or high or both are preschool precious. My best friend, you can recall him saying with perfect clarity. Right down to the slurring of his words you hear him calling you girlfriend. Stupid, how stupid. 

“Bullshit.” he says. His laugh is lively, a hiss-like noise of true amusement. You feel a pang in your chest despite your knee-jerk reaction to laugh with him. Gabriel cares for you and you have to wonder if he truly thinks you don’t feel the same way. It doesn’t mean as much any more, but you two have history. That means something to you in a concrete but thoroughly inexpressible way.

Gabriel looks like a black blotch on the hazy and candlelit mass of red. The windows are covered with heavy drapery, the industrial poles casting shadows on the ground. The room is sparsely lit, cloaking you in a mottled colour. You watch him work, making faces at him behind his back. 

His robe hangs off his elbows, exposing his shoulders and the bumpy ridge of his spine. Why he doesn’t grow his hair out, you’ll never know. He slicks it back but you’re privy to things, secret things and you happen to know it falls in waves when left alone. 

You could stand, you suppose. You could go to him. Instead, you wait for the opposite. He’ll get restless, he always does. Like a child wanting to play with their favourite toy, he’ll come to you. 

Right on cue, it seems. Satisfied with his makeup, Gabriel rises from the chair. He shrugs his robe all the way off and turns. Holding up his hands in a gesture of how do I look, you give a one-shoulder shrug. 

“Ghoulish,” you say. You sneer at him and he smirks with a tinge of sarcastic flair. He doesn’t keep you around to suck on anything of his, part of you knows he likes the fact that you spit poison. 

He calls you an old wound in public, a bitch who won’t stop biting. You’re almost certain he really thinks that, just as readily as you think he’s a thorn in your side. Old wounds, still bleeding. Neither of you will ever heal. 

“Yeah?” he asks, he stalks forward. His footsteps are silent, muffled by the carpet and his knees hit the front of the bed. 

“Yeah, and very ugly,” Gabe bares his teeth, makes a rumbling noise that tells you not to push it further. He’s so fragile that way, beautiful in the sense that no amount of makeup can cover it. You lift an eyebrow. “you gonna prove me wrong?”

“I got a show in an hour.” he says. “Farewell concert before I head out for Germany.” you roll your eyes, he’s been going on about the European tour for centuries. He leans forward, his knees sinking into the mattress. 

“Is that a no?” you say, sounding bored. He twitches like he’s annoyed but the predatory smile tells you he’s having fun with the game. You jerk your head to the side, gesturing for him to move. 

“It’s a hurry the fuck up and take your shirt off.” you let out a bark of laughter, the opposite of indelicate and cross your arms to grab the hem of your t-shirt. You tug upwards, throwing it off somewhere indiscreet and leaving you in your underwear. 

"Come here, Eric Draven.” you say. “We’ve got time,” your cheshire cat grin lights up your face and he knows you’re about to say something mean before it even leaves your mouth. “you’re not exactly a sixty minute man.” 

“And yet I’ve never heard you complain.” he says, bracing his arms on the bed in front of him. He knows how to move, you’ll give him that. Like a snake out of Eden, he crawls towards you. Your expression changes from something like malice to anticipatory lust. 

“No, why should I? You know what your doing.” you say, giving him that same inch he gave you. There’s a limit to teasing, you’ve come to understand. Gabriel’s an old friend but he’s still of rockstar fame, his ego bruises too easily. 

He dips his head and his lips, darkened with greasepaint, brush just above your knee. You watch him revel in the praise you so rarely give. Gabe smells like his ridiculous cologne and leather, vodka lacing the background. 

“You want anything?” he cocks his head in the direction of his stocked bar. You know he has drugs in every drawer. You shake your head.

“Just you.” you sigh, half expecting him to laugh at you. He doesn’t. Gabriel gives you an intense stare, something like affection but he just misses the mark. It’s one or the other, you’ve come to realize. One of you always falls short in communication. 

“Okay.” he manages after a moment. He kisses up your leg, narrowly avoiding leaving black marks. It’s happened before and as much as your tempted to swat at him and tell him stop, it’s too nice a sensation. 

He braces his hands on your knees, putting an entitled pressure on them as if expecting this to be easy. You hold fast, tensing your leg muscles and seeing how much patience has has left.

Not much, evidently with the way he paws at you. Gabriel draws back, looking sullen enough to warrant the eye-roll you give him. You spread your legs for him. 

His smile is snake-like, slippery and smug. You rest your head against the iron bars behind you and wait to see what he’ll do next. His hands are cold, they usually are and his fingers grip the insides of your thighs. They slide up, hands grasping the band of your underwear and pulling sharply down. You lift your hips. 

The noise that leaves him is growl-like, animalistic and appreciative of the sight of you. He lies between your parted legs, his hands pressing your hips down. Gabriel’s a tease, through and through, a hair-puller and a biter. He nips at your folds, drags his tongue in circles around your clit. 

“If you get any makeup on me, I swear---” you begin and he looks up. He hasn’t put in his contacts yet and he stares at you with natural, blue eyes. Someone told him they were pretty once and he’s never forgotten it. You don’t think they’re so terrible. 

“I won’t, I promise.” he winks at you. “Scouts honour.” his smile’s childish but it coaxes a grin from you as well. Satisfied, he returns to his peculiar foreplay. You’re mostly quiet, letting out soft gasps or noises only when he particularly impresses you. He knows the game, he knows how to play. 

It isn’t long before he’s bored, before he’s pushing himself up to a kneeling position again. You draw your knees up as well, coyly tucking your right leg around his waist. He replaces his tongue with his hand, touching you and reaching down to brush your hair back. 

You touch his hand, his wrist and spider your fingers up to his elbow. Gripping his arm, you pull him forward. He braces that same arm against the headboard and leans down just enough for you to place a light kiss on his painted lips. He doesn’t comment on your hypocrisy, smart man. He doesn’t kiss you any harder, truly dreading the idea of having to re-do any of his fright makeup. 

He angles his hips, pressing his crotch into your leg and you lift an eyebrow. Leather can’t hide the obvious bulge that digs into you. There’s a rush of heat you can’t deny, but are very glad he can’t feel. 

“Tick-tock, Gabe.” you remind him, pressing a haphazard kiss to his temple. His index finger brushes that sensitive nub between your thighs again and you barely bite back a moan. 

He nods, exaggerated and thoroughly annoyed but still stiff in his pants. The only time you can remember reigning in your playful, biting nature is when he couldn’t get it up. 

It’s the cocaine, you wanted to tell him. Instead, you kissed his neck and called him babe. He liked that more than you would’ve have guessed. But now isn’t the time for pet names, you admit. Now’s the time to make sure he stays humble. 

“Pants off.” you say, he fumbles for his belt. 

“Yeah, yeah.” he replies and you cock an eyebrow.

“I’m growing old here.” you say, your voice singsong and irritating. He leans forward again, taking his hand off you and kissing you harder to silence you. You don’t fight it and sigh against his mouth when you hear his zipper being undone. 

He’s finally rewarded with a sharp gasp, followed by nothing short of a whine when he slips two fingers in you. Gabriel is the antithesis of foreplay, a selfish creature who tends to come before you on the good days. His commitment to it today comes as a shock, especially considering the time constraints. You are, however, in no mood to debate it.

“God.” you sigh, your mouth leaving his as you loop your arms around his neck. You pull him tight to you, so tight that when he curls his fingers it’s him who gasps.

“Are you trying to choke me out?” he asks, sounding less irate than you expect. A breathy, surprised laugh leaves you and you loosen your hold. 

“It felt good.” you defend.

“Did it?” he asks. “How good?” you turn your face away instead of answering. You’ll stroke his cock but not his ego. 

“Put a condom on, Gabe. We haven’t got forever.” he seems to remember that little detail and fishes around in his back pocket for one. Forget the drugs, you think. Can’t go a step without finding a rubber.

Running your finger up the bony expanse of his spine, you settle into a certain pattern. Intimate discussion is a laughable affair, intimate gestures are more accepted. You trace the tattoos on his back, the skulls and the roses. You draw your legs around his waist and hold him there. Gabriel tilts his neck to the side, a silent request that you kiss him there. He’s taken the brunt of your terrible mood with little complaining, you’ll indulge him. 

“Fifteen minutes of foreplay?” you ask, your tone on the edge of breathless. “Is it my birthday?” the hand inside you withdraws before your able to finish and he watches your face. You give him what he wants, pouting visibly at the loss. 

You feel him line himself up and push inside you, a welcome intrusion. Your eyes close involuntarily and you find yourself arching your back. 

“I can go slow,” he says. “if that’s what you want.” you let go of him, lying back on the bed while he straightens up. He likes to look at you during the act. 

“What a gentleman,” you say, sarcastic but building to something sincere. “I’ve told you what I want.” you fold your arms above your head, stretching out as he pushes in to the hilt. 

His pace is initially slow, a break from the expected hard fucking. What’s changed? It isn’t as if this is the first time you’ve complained about this habit, either. You’re almost afraid to ask, worried he might change his mind.

It’s a little uncomfortable, being that you’re used to something rougher. He braces his hands on your hips, thrusting languidly. Your insistence seems to have the opposite effect and with a frustrated growl, you throw one arm over your eyes.

“Not fair.” you say and your covered face seems to wake in Gabriel the frustration you need. He’s assertive in a flimsy way, with the desire for control and no idea how to keep it. There are moments, however, of complete brilliance. 

He makes a noise similar to moan and adjusts his pace. His hands, previously occupied with squeezing your hips instead grab your wrists. His roughness is more familiar territory, and you don’t fight him as he pulls your arms away from your face. He holds them there, above your head with one hand in a grip you could break from. You don’t. 

Of the two, he’s more vocal but the coaxing required is usually not worth the effort. Now, however, he drowns you out as he watches you squirm. There’s something fun, something interested about false restraint. He likes the power, not the responsibility. His fingers find your clit again and Gabriel changes his pace to something bordering on devastating. 

Fuck it, you think. You moan his name and watch him glow neon. Matching his pace and rolling your hips against his, you abandon the restraint and enjoy the ride. He’s a good fuck and, like his own awareness of his beauty, no amount of playful insults will ever change that. 

He seems fixated on proving himself, a sharp contrast to his usual arrogance. His efforts are rewarded and with very little effort on his part you come first with a shaking sigh. You blink, slowly and your vision dims. The rising heat in you gushes outward, leaving comfortable tingling in its wake. You relax, and he doesn’t last much longer.

With a shout of your name, Gabriel finishes as well and nearly collapses. He’s not one for post-sex touching, is far too emotionally distant from the act but he brushes your hair out of your eyes with something like fondness. 

“And how long was that?” he asks and you shrug.

“Half an hour of sex, might be a new record.” he scoffs, a pompous sound and discards the used condom. Running a hand through his slicked hair, he sits up on the bed and walks back to the vanity. 

He puts his contacts in without doing anything to sanitize first. You bristle but he doesn’t seem to care. After contacts comes the wig, right on time. Ruby doesn’t knock, doesn’t bother to any more. 

You pull the red duvet over your chest, pushing yourself up on one elbow and watching them talk about set rearrangement. Five minutes, she tells him, before he has to leave. 

At least he listens to her, you doubt you could ever manage someone so dead-set on hedonism. Ruby leaves, sparing only a glance on her way out. You give her a smirk that she lifts an eyebrow at. 

“You’ll be back in three hours? Four?” you ask him when she’s gone, as slyly as you can. Gabriel’s in the middle of putting rings on his fingers and doesn’t detect the less-than-disinterested note in your voice. 

“Yeah, give or take. You gonna hold up here?” you nod and he turns when he’s done getting dressed. He pauses before grabbing his coat, looking at your return to lazy irreverence. Gabriel holds his hands up, mimicking a camera. “Don’t move, I want you looking exactly like that when I come back.” 

You give him a one shoulder shrug and a careless wave as he leaves the room. The door’s barely closed before you’re shrugging the blanket off and standing, tossing your hair and heading to the bar.


End file.
